Morphine
by Veritasa
Summary: "That's what the Holmes boys are, John. They're like drugs. Like morphine. Medicinal in small, controlled doses; addictive all too quickly; and destructive with regular exposure." There was a falling out, once, between Sherlock and Mycroft, and two more, not unrelated, between the Holmes boys and Maddie. Now John is piecing the tale together.


It was one of the cases that Sherlock took because he was too bored to function otherwise. Sherlock wrapped it up neatly as a case of insurance fraud, even pulling the "stolen" jewelry from a very neat hiding spot in the now-unused nursery. He'd left it in the hands of the police, seeing no further need for his expertise. He would get a check from the insurance company that would more than pay the rent and expenses, a price the company was all-too-pleased to pay, considering it was only a fraction of the reimbursement cost for the disappeared jewelry. And it was with that money that John insisted that Sherlock and he have a celebratory drink.

"After all," he'd argued, "we're practically on top of the best Scotch selection in the city." John opened the door to the bar, a speakeasy type place that Sherlock was already judging the anachronisms and inauthenticities of.

Sherlock had cracked a half-smile at his enthusiastic companion. "By whose standards? I don't trust my scotch to just anyone."

"No, I would say not. I'd wager Sherlock Holmes has very specific tastes." The door opened next to the bar, and to John's surprise, the bartender was speaking to them. She gestured at two seats at the end of the bar, and John nodded, feeling rather important that they were recognized. She was a rather attractive woman, about age 30, her hair clipped up at the back of her head, a white shirt and tight dark jeans. He needed more people like that to recognize them. He walked to the seat she'd indicated, Sherlock following behind.

For once, Sherlock looked nonplussed. The bartender noticed, but busied herself pouring a neat scotch – from a bottle she retrieved from the top shelf. She handed it to Sherlock, watching him carefully. "Can I assume the order's still the same?"

"It is." It was all Sherlock said as he struggled to contain his emotions. John watched them play like a film strip on Sherlock's face. John had never seen him like this before. He looked back at the bartender to get some sort of reading, but she wasn't looking at them again.

"Can I get the same?"

The bartender nodded and poured for him. "On the house." She began to turn away, then stopped, her eyes closing as she faced them again. "Listen, Sherlock, I know this probably didn't cross your radar. My earth not revolving around your sun, after all."

"Mycroft's been here." It wasn't an accusation. It was the same kind of statement John had heard Sherlock make a thousand times before. Something he just knew – deduced, rather – from some imperceptible detail.

"Once. A few years ago when we first opened." She laughed tersely. "Said to be careful or you'd come in, seeing as I've got the best scotch in the city and no Diogenes Club to buy it for you."

"Yes. He would say that." Sherlock eyed the scotch glass. "You're doing well, then."

"Can't complain."

"Not that you would." His snapped up to meet hers, and John noticed her breath catch. "Certainly not to me."

She was quiet a moment, but John was fascinated in observation of her. He could see some struggle, and then a bulwark snapped shut within her. Her voice was definite when she finally responded. "No. Not to you." Her eyes now moved over him in an entirely different manner. In fact, they reminded John of the way that Sherlock's eyes moved over people, as though he were determined to know everything about a person without actually knowing them. Then she moved to John.

John oddly reveled in the feeling. He didn't mind when Sherlock did it – it was impressive. A beautiful woman giving him the rundown, as though there were something interesting to learn about him, even seated next to the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes, well, it was titillating. Out of the corner of his eyes, John saw Sherlock down the scotch, watching the bartender warily. It was like daytime telly, he thought blithely.

"Maddie, this is Dr. John Watson. John, this is Winifred Madigan. We've met previously."

"So I gathered." He smiled warmly and put his hand out for Maddie to shake. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Madigan. Don't often meet someone that Sherlock knows. Are you a former client?"

The dark look that shot his way from both directions confirmed that that had been the wrong question in every possible way. "Maddie, if you please. No. No I wasn't." She nodded toward Sherlock's empty glass. "You want another?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you. Besides, I have a bit of work to do. I'll see myself out." He stood abruptly. "John, I'll see you at the flat." Before either could respond, Sherlock had swept out the door. John considered running after him, but knew that he'd probably hail a taxi and leave him in the dust. He could at least finish his scotch.

He took a sip. It was top notch stuff. He lifted his eyes to Maddie. She was biting the inside of her lip, pretending to arrange liquor bottles that were already in order. He looked back down at his glass, convinced he was interrupting a moment she'd rather have privately. "You'll want to know what that was about, I suppose."

He looked up eagerly, because she'd nailed it, then realized how intrusive his curiosity likely was. "Don't feel bad; it's what he does. Leaves questions in his wake wherever he goes. He likes the mystique it creates." She'd poured herself a glass of whiskey.

"You seem to know him." John was trying to play it close to the vest now. He'd tread on something dangerous, and every instinct he'd picked up in Afghanistan was to sit tight until it was defused.

A rush of air escaped her barely-parted lips, and she licked the whiskey off of them as the tension seemed to leave her too. "Yeah, that's about right. I seem to know him." She laughed self-deprecatingly. "You're his flatmate then, yeah? How long have you managed?"

"Almost a year, now."

She nodded. "Kudos to you." She looked him in the eye for a long minute, then finished her scotch. "I'll tell you what I can, but it's his story to tell. You'll pester him til he's batty, otherwise."

"He might already be batty," John interjected, trying to lighten the situation. He was pleased when she laughed.

"Oh, he seems it time and again, but Sherlock's as sane as any of us. Always has been. He's just twice as much of everything – twice as brilliant, twice as sane, twice as curious. It's gotta be a lot to handle in that brain of his. Only so many neural connections can be made up there. Sometimes I think he's like that Dr. Who episode where the girl can see all of space and time and it's just burning up her mind."

"You're saying Sherlock's like Dr. Who?"

She tilted her head side to side. "Something's gotta be a bit different to contain all of what goes on in his head. The rest of us would just burn. But we still try to understand." She laughed again. "Listen to me, being all cryptic and secretive. Won't do." She refilled his glass. "I've known Sherlock for ages and ages."

"You're old friends with him?"

"No, we both know Sherlock doesn't have friends." The words came like a slap to John – hadn't it only been a few weeks ago that Sherlock has said all but the same thing to him at Baskervilles? She didn't miss a beat: "I see he's told you the same. It's a recurring line. And yet you're still with him…" she trailed off, contemplating something that John was afraid he understood. "Still. I knew Sherlock when we were children. My mother was one of the nannies at the Holmes estate. His mother was a bit of an eccentric, if you can't tell by the names, but rather liked having me around. I was a spoiled brat by her hand, and got all sorts of tied up in that family. Shame."

"That's it then?"

"Hardly. But if that's what'll get you by…" she taunted.

He drained his scotch, accepting the challenge. "Go on."

She refilled both their glasses. "You know about Sherlock's brother Mycroft, I would assume." John nodded. "And so you know they're not on the best of terms. I suppose the world can blame me for that. They've both tried to tell me otherwise, but I don't really believe them. Mycroft said it was all just chemistry – he and Sherlock were all mixed up and volatile already. I was just the catalyst that set them off."

"What happened?"

"That's not mine to tell, at least not most of it." She sighed. "Needless to say, neither of them speak much to me anymore. I move outside their realms of expertise. That's intentional on my part and Mycroft's, though I think Sherlock is genuinely oblivious. That's what he does."

John laughed, feeling the scotch coursing through his veins and just caring a little less. "Didn't even know the way the solar system is ordered."

"Exactly! That's the way with him – no room for things that don't concern him."

"Right. Can't imagine all the other things he doesn't know about."

"Oh, you could probably get a good start. If it's in a standard grade school education, he's likely to have pushed it out of his pretty little head or never learned it the first place. They had private tutors and all that. Brilliant minds don't need to learn about the phases of matter or the way that ants build tunnels. They need to know the periodic table and string theory." She smiled, and John rather liked it.

"God, that sounds like the Holmes boys, doesn't it?"

"That's them. We were children together, but we never really played. Even in university, they were magnificent creatures to be envied and adored. He was brilliant and everyone knew it. They needed to know things. Mycroft could read people and books almost instantly. Sherlock took a more hands on approach from the very beginning, likes to gather his own information, do his own experiments. It made him a good chemist, and a dangerous friend."

"I thought you said you weren't friends with him?"

Her face darkened again. "I wasn't. But I'm saying more than my part of the story. You'll have to try with him, John." She cringed a little as she went over what she'd said. "One question: did he ever quit smoking?"

"Yeah, just this year, actually." He thought about the cigarette he'd taken from Mycroft after he thought Irene Adler had died the first time. "Still uses nicotine patches now and again though. Says it helps him think."

"Everybody's got a crutch I suppose. Better nicotine patches than…" she trailed off, but recovered quickly, "other drugs." She met John's eyes again, an intensity in them that made John hearken to her even through the slow haze of three scotches in less than half an hour. "That's what the Holmes boys are, John. They're like drugs, like morphine. Medicinal in small, controlled doses; addictive all too quickly; and destructive with regular exposure." She picked up his empty glass and hers, depositing them in the wash bin. He was being dismissed, and he gathered his coat. "If you ever need a drink or a chat, Dr. Watson, just come back."

"Thanks for that. And just John, please. I'll see you around, Maddie."

She smiled softly at him. "Good night John."

In the cab, John made up his mind to broach the subject of Maddie and her story with Sherlock. It was moments like this that reminded him how little he knew about his friend. Besides, she'd told him to get the other half of the story from Sherlock, and alcohol-buoyed confidence made him decide to do just that.

Still, as he drank a large glass of water before turning in for the night, he couldn't dismiss her words. Like morphine. His eyes caught his cane in the corner of his room, where it had sat unused for months. Like morphine.

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A/N: More to come! Review please!


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